I Don’t Know How We’re Letting Trump Get Away With All This Shit When I Truly Believe That If You

midsomer murders + text posts (part 4 / x)

So one of my tweets kinda blew up. :v

History repeats itself

The crux of the anti trans movement is a war on bodily autonomy. They don't want you to have any agency over what you look like, how you dress, who you date, whether to have kids, etc.

They want total control over you. Not just trans people. Not just queer people. You. Everyone.

Trans people are just a scapegoat. They want total control over everyone's self expression. They want the right to mold you into their perfect little cog in their dehumanizing machine.

Happy Trans Day of Visibility. Our rights are your rights. Our destruction is your destruction.

2nd of October: Light / An dàrna latha dhen Dàmhair: Solas

English Translation:

Thorin knew beauty, perfection, could recognise the mark of true craftsmanship with ease. Though still young in the years of Dwarves, he studied at the side of their greatest smiths, deep in the halls of Erebor before the dragon came, and learnt the true meaning of creation.

The forges of Men lacked skill and care; working on them brought him no satisfaction, only a pittance in his hand and scorn on the road. Reaching the Blue Mountains was a relief to his people and to Thorin but they did not relish to live on the charity of others.

Their prince would not forget the glory and honour they came from. They established halls of their own in the west and raised themselves out of ruin, enough that many among Thorin's folk lost all desire to seek for their lost homeland again.

For their sake, and the sake of his siblings, Thorin spoke little of it - choosing to look ahead rather than live looking back. It did not stop the dreams or the memories, nor quell his anger. Never again will we be beggars, turned from the door like animals.

Oft did Thorin go among their smiths, seeking the familiarity of a hammer in the hand and the heat of the fire on his face.

But eyes the light of the Arkenstone had seen could not easily forget its radiance, nor find equal in dull and dusty gems. In his dreams, it lay buried beneath the dragon's paws, forever in the dark within walls once strewn with firelight.

The Arkenstone. The heart of the mountain, they called it. He held its light closely, tightly, and allowed his hope to live on in its glow.

(Sorry this one is shorter, I'm working tonight and don't have a lot of time to translate it!)

Scottish Gaelic Translation:

Bha Thòrin eòlach air àlainneachd, snas. Dh’fhaodadh e ag aithneachadh comharra fhìor cheàirde gu furasta. Ged a bha e òg fhathast ann am beatha nan troichean, dh’ionnsaich e ri taobh na goibhnean as motha a bh’ aca, anns na h-uaimhean ìsle, aosmhoire Erebor mus tàinig an nathair-sgiathach, agus dh’ionnsaich e am fior ciall chruitheachd.

Bha na ceàrdaichean gun sgil is nàistinn. Cha tug e toileachadh dha a bhith ag obair orra idir. Cha d’fhuair e dad ach priobaid na làimh agus tàir bhuapa air an rathad. Nuair a ràinig iad na Beanntan Ghuirm, b’ e faochadh don t-sluaigh aige agus ris fhèin, ach cha robhar measail air a bhith a’ fuirich air carantas.

Cha dhìochuimhneach am prionnsa a’ ghlòir is onaraich a bh’ aca. Thog iad tallachan dhaibh fhèin anns an Iar agus thog iad fhèin a-mach à lom-sgrios. B’ e sin gu leòr dha tòrr dhen t-sluaigh Thòrin a bhith gan caill am miann a bhith a’ sireach an tìr-dhàimh aca a-rithist.

Air an son, agus air a phiuthar is a bhràthair, cha bhruidhinn Thòrin mu dheidhinn gu tric. Choimhead e air adhart seach a bhith beò a’ coimhead air ais. Cha do stad sin na h-aislingean, na chuimhneachain, no chuir mùch air a fhuath. Cha bhith sinn nar dìolachan-dèirce a-riamh a-rithist, feumach air taic mar gun robh beathaichean a bh’ annainn.

Chaidh Thòrin gu tric a-measg na goibhnean aca, a’ sireach cinnt dhen t-òrd na làimh is teas an teine air an t-aodann. Ach cha b’ urrainn sùilean a chunnaic solas an Arkenstone dhìochuimhneachadh an deàrrsaidh no lorg an aon rud ann an leugan luaireanta, ràsanaiche. Anns na aislingean bha i adhlaicte fon smàg an nathair-sgiathach, anns an dorchadas, ann an tallachan a bha air lìonadh aon uair le solas an teine, gu sìorraidh brath.

An Arkenstone. Cridhe na Beinn, chuir iad oirre. Ghlèidh e an solas faisg, gu daingean, agus leig a dhòchas a bhith beò anns a deàrrsadh.

(Duilich gu bheil am fear seo nas beaga, tha mi air a bhith ag obair a-nochd agus cha robh àm gu leòr agam airson eadar-theangachadh a dhèanamh! Bidh mearachdan ann a sheo agus bheir mi sùil a-màireach air haha)

The Dawn Kingdom Falls

She smiled at the sky, raindrops falling on her face through the dying rays of dusk. They rolled across her skin, soaking the tattered and bloodstained clothes she wore, hitting the dusty ground beneath her feet.

The cloven crown in her hands bled red, cracked and filthy. It's weight against her fingers was one of the few sensations she could feel, hours of furious battle having rendered them numb.

Her smile twisted, salty raindrops mixing with the others on her lashes. Everything around her was silent and unmoving, the sound of her breathing was like bells in her ears.

The sun shone brightly through the clouds pouring down on her, attempting to wash away the pain and sorrow drowning the young princess. Somehow, through it all, she could feel the warmth.

They'd said she would fail, that her kingdom was doomed to fall at his feet. She challenged them, made clear her intention to fight to the last. What is death, the princess told them, oh so passionately, compared to a life in chains?

Now, only she did not become acquainted with the welcoming hands of death. Around her, all the men and women who followed her so valiantly were lying, broken and slaughtered.

Through the dust she could see him, the one who brought everything down. His eyes glinted, the sword at his side gleaming silver. The line of red dripping from it's edge left a river in his wake.

The young warrior princess knew how this ended. It happened to her father, her mother, her brother, now her. It stung she could not have died alongside her soldiers, rather than left until last. Even in death, separated from her people.

She stared determinedly at the sky, watching the light fade. The darker it became, the harder the rain fell. Soon, she was drenched, still clutching her shattered crown.

"I suppose it's true, what they say," he said calmly, raising the point of his blade, "some legends, they turn to gold; others, they turn to dust. Can you guess which one you shall be, Princess?"

His words dug deep, but in the gathering darkness, on a battlefield of destruction and death, the laughter of a girl rang out loud and clear.

With eyes of sparking blue, she looked him in the face, grinning and unafraid. "You are a fool, if you believe you will be dressed in gold in the words of history."

"I am the conqueror, the dragonheart, I am unstoppable! Your kingdom has crumbled, like all the others," he snarled, his thin face flushing red beneath the black helmet, "they will remember me for centuries!"

The princess laughed again, standing up from her place on the ground. "They will. But that gold will tarnish, it will fade and be forgotten. The legacy you have made for yourself is bloody and savage; when they tell the story of today, we will be the victors."

Now, he laughed. The sound used to make her smile, like no one else could. The prince she had loved died long ago, and this shell would not ruin her memories of that boy.

"Your kingdom is mine, your people are dead, and you are going to die in the dirt," he shouted, his voice echoing across the battlefield.

She grit her teeth, letting the golden crown hit the ground. Dust rose from it, pooling around her ankles. "Like I said, death is kinder than a life in chains. You may have defeated my armies, but you never defeated our spirit. We have fallen with hearts full of love for this land, in defiance of all you stand for. One day, when our story is told, they will sing of our valour! They will know how we spat in your face! They will know how your downfall started at the doorstep of our kingdom."

The blade fell before she could blink, just as the last light of the sun sank below the horizon, and her land was plunged into darkness. But she died with a smile on her face, a smile for a secret only she knew.

The Prince of Night would fall, and the architect of his demise was hidden away, far over the mountains. Her hair, like raven's wings, and her eyes, like sapphires. She wore a crown of golden thorns, and someday her father would feel it's bite.

The Grimm writers were so real for making a wesen whose name directly translates to “bloodbath” and then giving us the softest cardigan wearing, cello playing, vegetarian clockmaker.

Obsessed with Merlin's main defense against getting caught as a warlock is that everyone else thinks he's incompetent